Cleaning my drawers,

collecting my poems.




Rough translation:

They're yelling at nights,
the children of the grave
wanting you to awake,
coming out and play

They laugh at the stars
with their open mouths
rattling their bracelets
made out of bones

Their ashen skins
faintly gleaming
moonshine showing
the blood in veins
      congealing

"In the grave one rests"
the adults tend to say
but why should we,
if we might as well play?

- As we never had the time
during our lives.